Read Online When True Night Falls by C.S. Friedman - Free Book Online
Authors: C.S. Friedman
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out, a keening note of suffering more bestial than human—and Damien knew Gerald Tarrant well enough to see the distaste flicker in his eyes. But she offered no pleas, despite the pain, and was clearly doing her best not to draw back from him. She had asked for this, after all. It had been her idea. And—as much as Damien hated to admit it—it was a damned good one.
It’s not just fur she’s sacrificing, he reminded himself. It’s her heritage. Her people. Because they hate humans too much to take her back like this. It was, for her kind, the ultimate disfigurement. And he longed to take her hand, to squeeze it, to try to reassure her as he would reassure a human woman—but the inch-long claws that had already gouged deep furrows in the bed’s frame made such a gesture impossible. And would she accept such a gesture? She had kept to herself for most of the voyage, disdaining the company of humans—even her own traveling companions—for many long months at sea. Would an offer of human contact comfort her now, or merely insult her?
Slowly, carefully, Gerald Tarrant remade her face. Ignoring her soft moans of suffering, ignoring the cries that periodically emanated from her, like the yelp of a wounded animal, pausing only briefly when a spasm of pain wracked her body—and then only because the motion made it hard for him to work—he stripped her face of its natural covering and laid bare the tender skin beneath. Cheeks. Forehead. Eyelids. Nose. The fur fell from her in patches, as though she were being skinned alive. And yet she made no complaint, though her arms had spasmed against the coarse rope bonds often enough and hard enough to draw blood.
Is that a bestial nature, you bastard?
At last it seemed that Tarrant was finished. He brushed a few loose hairs from her face and sat back to regard his handiwork. Hesseth lay still, helpless and exhausted, panting like a winded animal. And her face....
Was striking. Exotic. Beautiful. Tarrant had left behind thin lines of fur to serve as eyebrows and lashes, and they framed her eyes with graceful symmetry. The eyes were exotic, with a soft fold at the inner corner reminiscent of the human epicanthic. The hairline had been subtly graded, so that it appeared to give way not to fur but to long hair, thick and golden. The cheekbones were high and fine, the nose was more human than Damien would have thought possible, and the lips.... Tarrant had done something to contract the muscles above and below them, so that they were pulled back into a human fullness. The result was perfectly balanced, breathtakingly beautiful. And awesome, in that its perfection had been sculpted in blood and pain. Even in destruction the Hunter was aesthetic. It was easy to forget that side of him, Damien thought. Just like it was easy to forget that beneath that brutal exterior lived the creative genius who had breathed life into his faith. God of Earth, if only that facet of him could be brought back to life....
“The hands won’t pass,” Tarrant said shortly. “Not with claws instead of fingernails. Best to count on gloves for that, and leave the fur to soften the effect if they have to come off. But there is one more thing....”
He placed his fingers upon her eyes, touching the inner corners. Her cry of pain was short and ragged, and it seemed to burst loose some dam inside her. When he withdrew from her, there was blood in her eyes in the place of the inner membrane, and tears also. She began to shake uncontrollably.
“That’s all,” Tarrant assessed. Oblivious to her suffering. “If she’s careful she should pass.” He nodded, clearly pleased with his work. “You may release her now.”
Carefully, Damien loosened her bonds. Gently he folded her bruised wrists across her chest and gathered her up in his arms, as he would a child. She moaned softly and pressed her face against his chest, burying herself in his warmth. He wished he had a third hand, that he might stroke her with.
It’s not just fur she’s sacrificing, he reminded himself. It’s her heritage. Her people. Because they hate humans too much to take her back like this. It was, for her kind, the ultimate disfigurement. And he longed to take her hand, to squeeze it, to try to reassure her as he would reassure a human woman—but the inch-long claws that had already gouged deep furrows in the bed’s frame made such a gesture impossible. And would she accept such a gesture? She had kept to herself for most of the voyage, disdaining the company of humans—even her own traveling companions—for many long months at sea. Would an offer of human contact comfort her now, or merely insult her?
Slowly, carefully, Gerald Tarrant remade her face. Ignoring her soft moans of suffering, ignoring the cries that periodically emanated from her, like the yelp of a wounded animal, pausing only briefly when a spasm of pain wracked her body—and then only because the motion made it hard for him to work—he stripped her face of its natural covering and laid bare the tender skin beneath. Cheeks. Forehead. Eyelids. Nose. The fur fell from her in patches, as though she were being skinned alive. And yet she made no complaint, though her arms had spasmed against the coarse rope bonds often enough and hard enough to draw blood.
Is that a bestial nature, you bastard?
At last it seemed that Tarrant was finished. He brushed a few loose hairs from her face and sat back to regard his handiwork. Hesseth lay still, helpless and exhausted, panting like a winded animal. And her face....
Was striking. Exotic. Beautiful. Tarrant had left behind thin lines of fur to serve as eyebrows and lashes, and they framed her eyes with graceful symmetry. The eyes were exotic, with a soft fold at the inner corner reminiscent of the human epicanthic. The hairline had been subtly graded, so that it appeared to give way not to fur but to long hair, thick and golden. The cheekbones were high and fine, the nose was more human than Damien would have thought possible, and the lips.... Tarrant had done something to contract the muscles above and below them, so that they were pulled back into a human fullness. The result was perfectly balanced, breathtakingly beautiful. And awesome, in that its perfection had been sculpted in blood and pain. Even in destruction the Hunter was aesthetic. It was easy to forget that side of him, Damien thought. Just like it was easy to forget that beneath that brutal exterior lived the creative genius who had breathed life into his faith. God of Earth, if only that facet of him could be brought back to life....
“The hands won’t pass,” Tarrant said shortly. “Not with claws instead of fingernails. Best to count on gloves for that, and leave the fur to soften the effect if they have to come off. But there is one more thing....”
He placed his fingers upon her eyes, touching the inner corners. Her cry of pain was short and ragged, and it seemed to burst loose some dam inside her. When he withdrew from her, there was blood in her eyes in the place of the inner membrane, and tears also. She began to shake uncontrollably.
“That’s all,” Tarrant assessed. Oblivious to her suffering. “If she’s careful she should pass.” He nodded, clearly pleased with his work. “You may release her now.”
Carefully, Damien loosened her bonds. Gently he folded her bruised wrists across her chest and gathered her up in his arms, as he would a child. She moaned softly and pressed her face against his chest, burying herself in his warmth. He wished he had a third hand, that he might stroke her with.
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